And the ax of the woodman is ringing
- All day in sylvestrian halls,
Where the chipmunk is playfully springing
- And the blue-jay discordantly calls;
And the red chips are fitfully flying
- On the asters that sprinkle the moss;
Where the beauty of summer is dying,
- And the sun lances glimmer across;
There's a bird that is spectrally knocking,
- On a pine that is withered and bare,
For the fir-top is trembling and rocking,
- In the blue of the clear upper air
There's a crackling of fiber the crashing
- Of a century crushed at a blow,
And the fir-trees are wringing and lashing
- Their hands in a frenzy of woe!
A pheasant whirs up from the thicket
- In the hush that comes after the fall,
And the squirrel retires to his wicket,
- And the bluebird renounces his call;
And the panther lies crouched by the bowlder
- In the gloom of the canyon anear,
And the brown bear looks over his shoulder,
- And the buck blows a signal of fear;
But there's never a pause in your duty,
- And the echoing ax is not still
As you waste with the green temples of beauty
- For the puncheon and rafter and sill
That are wrought in a cabin so lowly
- The trees will clasp hands over head,
But the heart calls it home, and the holy
- Love-lights on its hearthstone are shed.
It is staunch and rough-hewn, and the ceiling
- Of the fragrant red cedar is made,
With an edging of silver revealing
- A picture of sunlight and shade.
And the Word has its place, not a trifle
- Obscured in a pageant of books,
And above the broad mantle your rifle
- Is hung on accessible hooks.
Oh, the freshness of hope and of fancy
- That illumines the home and the heart,
With the grace of a bright necromancy
- That excels the adorning of art!
And you rise and look forth and the glory
- Of Hood is before you again,
And the sun weaves a gold-threaded story
- In the purple of mountain and glen.
***
Stand up, and look out from the mansion
- That adorns the old scene of the past
On the fruitage of hope the expansion
- Of the fruits of your vigils forecast!
